Strawberries Taste How Lips Do
by BarefootDancer
Summary: New year means new roommate - university policy - and the name on Steve's info sheet offers little insight into his roommate's identity. James Buchanan Barnes. Steve decides he'll just have to wait until he meets him in person to get the measure of him.
1. If You Fell Asleep

Nothing quite prepares Steve for the first week back on campus - two years of this shit and you'd think he'd be used to a kilt-clad Morrison unicycling through the men's west wing while playing the bagpipes, but nope.

(It would have been eccentrically endearing if the man hadn't done it at 6:00 in the morning the day of Steve's sophomore-year Middle-English lit exam.)

Natasha calls him "old man" sometimes - an old man "in the body of a sexy twenty-something history major." Steve says nothing in return - Natasha's kickboxing skills are nothing to sneeze at.

Steve's upperclassman nostalgia gets the better of him though, somewhere in between filling out the parking permit and loading his bags onto the push-cart to take up to his room. New year, new students, but the campus never changes. The school cafe still serves triple-shot espresso at the ass-crack of dawn and there's a new Snogging Couple behind the dugout. This university feels like home - Steve can tolerate Morrison the Unipiper.

New year means new roommate - school policy - and the name on Steve's info sheet offers little insight into his roommate's identity.

 _James Buchanan Barnes_

Steve decides he'll just have to wait until he meets him in person to get the measure of him.

* * *

When Steve makes it up to the dorm, James is nowhere in sight. There is one canvas duffle on the floor, and sheets on the bed closest to the door, but no roommate. Steve shrugs and takes the bed by the window. He must be out and about.

Steve is never one to bring much with him, and his bags are unpacked, bed made, and items stashed in the closet within half an hour. Whoever James is, he seems to be a man of a similar mindset because his half of the closet is almost empty, and the only bag of his that Steve can spot is the canvas duffel by the bed. His clothing is nondescript and plain, offering no clues.

An enigma.

His unpacking is done, but it's only six in the evening. Classes don't start for another week, and anyway, Steve had finished the remainder of his summer homework on the drive up during a two-hour long period of time when the country road was gridlocked by an errant herd of cattle. There's no sense in lazing about the dorm if the elusive roommate isn't in attendance. Steve shoots off a text to Nat, and a reply comes almost instantly.

 **Steve** : Are you free?

 **Natasha** : Just drove in. Clint's filling out parking forms for the motorcycle.

 **Steve** : Dinner at Pancho's?

 **Natasha** : The day I turn down Pancho's will be the day I die.

 **Steve** : Don't I know it.

 **Natasha** : I've got Stark; you grab Wilson.

 **Steve** : Sure thing. Bruce?

 **Natasha** : If you can pry him out of the lab.

 **Steve** : I'll see what I can do.

 **Natasha** : See you in fifteen, old man. You're buying ~

 **Steve** : No, I'm not. See you there.

Sliding his phone into his pocket, Steve grabs his jacket from the peg by the door and heads out.

* * *

Sam Wilson is Steve's old roommate, a fellow New Yorker. Steve arrived two years ago, a scrappy boy from Brooklyn, a little out of place on campus. Sam welcomed Steve into his life and his dorm room with a grudging _hello_ and a plate of his mother's cookies. It's going to be weird not having Sam as a roommate, no muted _fuck you_ responding to Steve's 5:00 alarm every morning.

Sam's rooming down the hall with Rhodey this year - he'll still suffer the Unipiper's morning rounds. He's close enough that if Steve's lucky, he'll be able to get some of Mrs. Wilson's care package cookies.

Rhodey opens the door with a hello, and Steve spots Sam laying on his bed, earbuds in and bouncing one knee.

"Pancho's with Nat?"

"You know it." His phone chimes. "Nat says you're buying."

"I never agreed to that."

Rhodey agrees to come when he hears Tony will be there. Steve doesn't know Rhodey well, but he's been Tony's friend for years and he seems like a solid guy.

* * *

Bruce is, as expected, holed up in the chem lab. _No, Pancho's will not tempt him away from his research, thank you very much_ \- Bruce is, in his own words, a busy, busy man. Steve's offer to bring him back a burrito is met with a distracted wave.

"Come on man, not even for margaritas?" Whines Sam. "A little birdie told me - and by a little birdie, I mean Nat - that this old man here -" He elbows Steve in the ribs - "Is buying."

"I never agreed to that." Steve shakes his head; he is a very aggrieved man.

Bruce laughs. "Tell Nat I'll make it next Thursday, yeah?"

By next Thursday, he means in two months. No one holds it against him.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later everyone - sans Bruce - is standing on the sidewalk outside Pancho's. The sun sets the sky on fire as it slips below the maple trees. Steve looks at the laughing group, bathed in orange light, and smiles to himself. It's just like old times.

Even a week before the start of term, Pancho's is packed with college kids, and the muted roar of youthful partying washes over the group as they squeeze through the doors. Inside is even louder, and Natasha steers the group towards a corner booth by the front window, far from the rowdy bar. She pushes Steve onto the bench seat and slides in after him, dragging Clint with her.

"Move your ass, old man."

Everyone scoots in after them, sliding across the wrap-around seat till they fit. Tony scoots close on Steve's right and ribs him in the side, saying "I heard it through the grapevine that you're buying?"

"That's right," hoots Natasha, leaning on Steve's other arm. "Drinks are on Rogers tonight, boys!"

Steve shakes his head, aggrieved. "Nat, drinks are never on me."

"Don't be a wet blanket, Steve."

Steve sighs. He's only twenty two, but he is definitely too old for this. "Just one round."

Nat whoops again and musses his hair. Steve smiles indulgently and rolls his eyes. "Just one round."

A waitress whisks by, taking their drink orders. Steve opts for a corona, and Clint, Sam and Rhodey order beers as well. Tony and Nat both order margaritas. Steve raises an eyebrow. "A little early to party, don't you think?"

Tony gives him an old-money smile. "It's five o'clock somewhere, darling."

Steve nurses his beer as the amicable ribbing amongst his friends flows over him as they fight over what to order. The waitress comes back with her notepad and then sweeps away, returning with their food in record time considering the steady flow of customers tonight.

Steve's order of lengua tacos is met with some ribbing from Tony.

"I pegged you as a meat-and-potatoes guy," he teased, "Mr. All-American."

Steve rolls his eyes. "the street vendor by my Brooklyn apartment sells these. I like them."

Tony snags a piece of lengua off Steve's plate before he can protest. He waggles his eyebrows as he pops it in his mouth. "So you could say you're the type of guy that's good with - "

Steve fixes him with a stare. "Ooooh, Stark, you're in for it!" Hoots Nat.

"One more tongue joke. I dare you."

Tony wags his eyebrows once, steals another bite, and turns away to say something into Rhodey's ear. Rhodey looks back at Tony and looses a bark of a laugh.

Steve looks across the table at his friends and smiles to himself. Nothing much changes around here.

* * *

The group piles out of Pancho's three hours later. The sun has sunk down beneath the hills now, and the streetlights throw shadows up against the walls. It's not late enough in the year for steam to rise from Steve's breath, but the night air still sneaks a chill up the back of his jacket. He stamps his feet on the pavement to warm himself and bids everyone goodnight, scuffing his way across the quad to his dorm.

He lets himself through the door. Someone has already managed to burn popcorn in the communal microwave. Despite the sign on the wall prohibiting microwave popcorn. Someone has thrown wide the common room bay windows, yet the smoky scent lingers. Some first years are doing their best to look blameless while sitting on one of the battered sofas; it almost works, except that they keep stealing nervous glances towards the microwave. Steve nods to them on his way to the stairs and they stiffen. One yelps. All look culpable. Steve laughs and shakes his head.

He lets himself into his room, blinking in the dark entryway. Steve flips on the bedside lamp and looks around. No sign of his elusive room mate. He shrugs and tosses his keys, wallet, and phone onto the nightstand. He falls asleep in bed with the light on, a copy of Corelli's Mandolin open across his chest.

* * *

Some time later, a man lets himself into the dorm room. He looks at the sleeping blonde in the far bed, book propped open against his clavicle. He crosses the room and picks up the book, dog-earing and closing it before setting it on the end table. Steve stirs in his sleep and turns over, mumbling something unintelligible. He does not wake.

The man readies himself for bed, making little noise and occasionally glancing at Steve. When he approaches to turn off the bedside lamp, Steve rolls over, blearily registering a figure standing before him. The man pauses, seeing if Steve will wake. Steve sees nothing much with his sand-sticky eyes and, almost immediately, sleep rolls over him once more in a dense blanket.

The light is shut off with a _snick_.

Sheets rustle as the man settles himself into bed.

Steve sleeps soundly through the night.

When he wakes, There is no one in the room. His book is on the end table, and the light is off, though he cannot remember readying himself for sleep. He vaguely recalls a person in the room sometime during the night, and looks across the room. The other bed has been made, nothing to betray the past presence of an occupant save a slight wrinkle in the counterpane.

Steve rises and greets the day alone.


	2. Mustn't Get Our Feet Wet

**Summary:**

Steve still hasn't found any solid information on his elusive roommate, so he enlists the help of Natasha. Ask and Ye Shall Receive, apparently, because Steve gets more than he bargained for.

Otherwise Known As: Natasha is Meddlesome and Steve is a Tired Man.

* * *

 **Opening Note:**

I don't trust google translate, so I taught myself basic Russian grammar and then translated what I wanted with a dictionary and a helpful conjugation page. See the end of the chapter for english equivalents. If you speak Russian and I've done something wrong, please drop me a comment and I will fix my mistake! I am woefully out of my depth here.

* * *

The next few days pass uneventfully - Steve's an early riser, but he still can't beat his elusive roommate. He hasn't once seen him, with only vague memories of that first night. Articles of clothing are moved around the room, a stack of textbooks appears on his desk (Macro Econ 203) and a stack of pleasure reading on the shared night stand (Zinky Boys, The Dovekeepers - James has good taste, Steve will give him that), but James himself fails to materialize.

Annandale-on-Hudson is a stone's throw from the Catskills, so Steve spends the week hiking around the surrounding foothills, enjoying the last breaths of summer. He takes some light reading - A Passage to India - and camps out under a sprawling oak, dazzled by the light coming through the branches, the muted heat of the damp green shade. Bees are buzzing in the hedgerow. He falls asleep again and wakes with grit pressed against his cheek and a peculiar tan in the pattern of the tree canopy.

He picks roadside plums as he walks; a late Marjorie variety with flesh the color of waning light. The juice also tastes like sunlight, and it sticks to his face and fingers, until he stops to rinse himself in a horse trough. A docile percheron canters over in curiosity, and Steve feeds it a few in apology. A good score he picks to stash in his knapsack, a present for Mrs. Wilson because he knows she likes them for jelly (he surprises her with a Tuesday bus ride into Boston to catch her before she leaves for choir practice).

Lunch he takes at 2:30 in a mom-and-pop café with a red awning and a faded blue Chevy parked alongside. The reuben he orders is excellent, and the little girl who carries it out to him - hair in two braids, freckled with sun - must be the proprietors' daughter. Steve slips her an extra two dollars when she brings the check. "Candy," he mouths, and then winks. She giggles and makes a shushing motion, tucking the bills into her back pocket.

And then Steve makes his way back down the graveled farm roads, out of the wildwood and the vegetable fields, out to the life where the clock ticks.

* * *

If anything, in his third year of college, life on campus seems more familiar than the green idyll of the hedgerow. One thing Steve cannot become accustomed to, however, is the early-morning stupor that accompanies his four-credit seven-o'clock class. And who's the damn idiot that signed up for Chilton's PoliSci lecture, hmm? Don't you give me any lip about it being the only section left, snipes Sam - he's right, as usual. At least he has the heart to press a thermos of coffee into Steve's clumsy fingers.

As it happens Steve should perhaps kiss Chilton rather than curse him, because it's only thanks to Steve's six o'clock alarm that he meets his matutinal roommate. The ringing pulls Steve from sleep and he casts a hand across the top of the nightstand, searching for the offending object. It takes a good ten seconds of fumbling to find the button. Then he's rolling out of bed while keeping his eyes tight shut. Steve is too busy rubbing away sleep sand and looking for his pants to hear the door open.

It takes until he hears a startled cough from the doorway for Steve to realize he isn't alone. Shading his vision with one hand, Steve looks up to see a young man standing in the doorway, illuminated by the blinding fluorescent hall lights. He's wearing a tank top and low-hanging sweat pants, and he has a towel over his shoulder. A toothbrush is held loosely between his lips.

One second -

Steve blinks the light from his eyes - there's toothpaste at the corner of the man's mouth.

Two seconds -

Steve's brain goes click click cachunk - without coffee, there's only whistling wind between his ears.

The man strides across the room, retrieves a rucksack from his desk chair, and heads back toward the door.

Three seconds -

It isn't until the door has closed that his brain chooses to cooperate, and the winning card appears. Jackpot. Roommate. Then Steve realizes he's standing in the middle of the room, wearing nothing but boxers printed with dancing penguins. "Oh, Hell," he says, with feeling.

* * *

Steve might as well make the best of the morning, so he throws on some pants and opens a granola bar. He's tugging on a shirt when the door opens again. Caught with his arms in the sleeves and his head outside the hem, he struggles to pull the shirt down and ends up with the neckline caught against his forehead and his arms in the air.

His roommate - James - stops and stares. His hair is gathered into a low bun, and wet clumps are coming down to paste against his neck. He's thrown a hoodie over the tanktop.

Steve grins sheepishly through the neckhole, and tugs the hem down. He laughs self-consciously. Sam, the voice of reason, had been telling him to buy some new tees (Steve had shrunk this set by accident; it's evident in the way it clings across the torso), and now Steve wishes he had.

The man gives him a look of perturbation and flushes.

Steve is many things, but he wasn't raised to forget his manners. He offers a sleepy "Good morning. I'm Steve."

James grunts in lieu of a salutation and picks up his backpack. Then he disappears again.

Steve blinks, nonplussed. "Okay, then."

* * *

The rest of the week passes in a similar fashion. Steve has managed to surprise James twice, once while dressing and once in the communal washroom while brushing his teeth. The fruitful outcomes: a mumbled "Good morning," with his head inside a sweater, and a wave on the way out the bathroom door. Most days, James escapes before Steve rises.

Steve brings up the matter with Natasha over lunch that Saturday in the ramen shop. They grab seats at the window; the barstools are robin's-egg enamel, and the walls are egg-yolk yellow.

"So, my roommate this year is a real enigma," he says around a bite of noodle.

Natasha eyes him over her bowl. "Like, stoic-warrior enigma, or hitman-for-hire enigma?"

"That's just the thing," cries Steve, "I don't know! I've gotten all of two words out of him, and both were heavily accented." He slumps against the wood counter.

"Hmm." Natasha sets her chopsticks across her bowl. "Name?"

"James Buchanan Barnes."

Natasha steeples her fingers. "You said he has an accent?"

"Yeah," Steve rubs the back of his neck. "He sounds Russian, but with a last name like Barnes I'd think he'd - Oh, wait!" He leans out of his chair to rummage in his bag. "I got the description paper here!"

She takes it from him. "Steve, there isn't anything here that you haven't told me." She flips the page over. "He didn't fill out a profile?"

"No."

"This isn't much. Can you give me a description?"

"Uh, yeah. Tall. Long, dark hair - he was wearing it in a pony tail yesterday - maybe collarbone-length? Blue eyes. He - " Steve pauses, making large gestures in the air. After a breath, "He's muscular. Like, his thighs could crush a Fiat." He stops talking, and tugs the bill of his cap down in embarrassment.

"Steve, do you expect me to inspect the legs of every hipster on this campus?"

"He's not a hipster." He slides down in his chair. "Ok, you know what? Fine. You're right; he's probably a hitman and we're both going to end up dead when he finds out we've been looking into him."

"Only one of us is going to die, and it won't be me, because I know krav maga."

"Natasha," Steve groans.

"I'll do some digging, ask my Russian contacts."

"Your 'Russian Contacts' are Ilya and Evgenia at the bar."

Natasha laughs. "A girl doesn't reveal her secrets." She lays down a ten and slides off her barstool. She's still laughing quietly as she exits the ramen shop. The door tinkles as it closes.

* * *

The next morning, there's no sign of James. Typical.

As Steve shuffles his way across the chilly green- the dying of September in New England marks the first frost, and glass rimes the quad - Natasha falls into step beside him. She hands him a thermos of coffee.

"This feels like a drug deal," Steve laughs.

"Passing stimulants on the quad," Natasha smirks, "The dean will have my head for sure." A gust blows down the walkway and she tugs the collar of her leather jacket higher. "I got the intel you asked for."

Steve perks up. "Yeah?"

Natasha pulls a piece of paper out of her pocket and hands it to Steve, who unfolds it.

"Bingo. International student, and - ok, are the sunglasses really necessary?"

"Don't tell me what to do, Steve. I need to keep up my reputation as the campus spider."

"Fine, fine. He's a business major with a music minor?"

"Apparently. It looks like that's why he's been leaving so early - director gave him the keys to a practice room in the conservatory."

"Wow. Never would have pegged him as a musician. He seems more..."

"Built?" Natasha makes some shapely gestures in the air.

Steve's brow furrows. "That's not - I - oh, whatever." Then he sees Natasha's crafty smile. "Don't do anything untoward, please."

"Wouldn't dream of it, old man," she says with a small wave as she peels away onto a side path.

* * *

Apparently, "nothing untoward" is, to Natasha, loosely defined.

Steve's phone dings in the middle of his Central Asian Steppes History class. The professor, a tiny, vespine woman shoots him a pointed look. Steve waves an apology and checks his text log under the desk. Sam is still in his Psych lecture, so there's no way it's him, and his heart sinks when his suspicions are confirmed. Natasha.

 **Natasha:**

So, I'm studying in Hoffman library at 2:00.

 **Steve:**

Well, I wish you all the best.

 **Natasha:**

Old man, you know that when I say this, I'm asking you to sit with me.

 **Steve:**

I'm not the one taking Theory of French Folk Tales.

 **Natasha:**

I don't expect you to be able to help me, but I would like some moral support.

A muscular shoulder to cry on.

 **Steve:**

Well, if that's all I am to you...

 **Natasha:**

Please?

 **Steve:**

ok ok I'll be there.

 **Natasha:**

you're the best.

Third floor, table by the window and the potted ficus.

He rolls his eyes - she has to be plotting something and he can't tell what. Steve looks up to see the professor staring at him, and he hurriedly stuffs his phone into his pocket. Natasha's planning something, all right.

* * *

Steve gets out of lecture at 2:10 and he hoofs it across campus to meet Natasha. When he arrives, Natasha's already got her books spread out, and has somehow managed to sneak an energy drink past the Attack Librarians. He raises an eyebrow at the can, and she points at the ficus. "perfect cover."

The ficus is indeed good cover, because Steve doesn't see the third party at the table until he plops down in a chair and changes his viewing angle.

Sitting diagonally across from him is James Barnes.

Eloquently, the first word out of Steve's mouth is "Uh…"

James ducks his head down and says something that sounds like "Hi."

Natasha takes charge of the conversation with the grace of a Victorian matron sniffing for blood - or a marriage proposal for her daughter. "I ran into him on the way back from Stevenson Athletic - he was sitting on the retaining wall on the lower quad reading. I asked if he'd like to come study with us."

Steve narrows his eyes - she's working an angle for sure - but holds his peace. Truly, he's happy for any chance to meet the guy he's gonna be living with for the next year. So he smiles at James and says "приве́т, Рад тебя видеть."

Surprise looks rather oxymoronic on the face of a guy with the appearance that he could wrestle a bear. A good three seconds pass, and Steve's just about to panic thinking he's said the wrong thing - which is not true because Natasha taught him that herself way before this year, and if she'd lied and she and Ilya have been having the piss behind his back, so help him god - when James bites out "Трахни меня по стол, пожалуйста."

Natasha nearly spits up her energy drink. Steve gives her A Look. She flaps her hand in a gesture of I'm fine, I'm fine, which is not the reassurance he's looking for.

Ok. So Steve isn't sure what he just said, because пожалуйста is used for expressing gratitude and saying please. He decides a shaky smile is the best response.

Natasha, recovering from her fit, jumps in "He says it's nice to meet you." Now it's James' turn to snort. Steve is a tired, tired man. He shakes his head and pulls out his PolySci notes.

He's halfway through his paper on poverty and voter suppression when James gives a little cough. He looks up to see him leaning over to Natasha, pointing at something in his Econ text. Natasha shrugs and pats him on the back. Then she points at Steve. Bucky makes eye contact with him like a startled deer.

"What's up?" says Steve.

Bucky fiddles with the page. "There are two definitions here - I am not sure what is their meaning?"

Steve looks at Natasha. Considering that she grew up with a loud Russian family, this seems more like her forte. She just raises an eyebrow. Okay. So he says "I'll see if I can help," and scoots his chair until he's rubbing elbows with James.

"Deflation and Disinflation," James mumbles, pointing at the textbook, "what is the difference? Deflation? Opposite of inflation. Disinflation? Opposite of inflation. Hate English."

"Ok," Steve starts, "Inflation occurs if average prices for goods are rising." He pulls his notebook over and draws a graph with positive slope.

"If average prices are falling, there is deflation." He draws a second graph with negative slope.

"Disinflation applies to rate of change." He begins a third graph with positive slope.

"So, prices here are inflating." He extends the graph, making the incline shallower.

"Here, the prices increase slower; there is still inflation, but that rate of increase is smaller. A situation like this is called disinflation - prices do not drop, but how fast they rise slows down."

James looks at him seriously and says "я бы отса́сываю вы перед библиоте́карша."

A fit of coughing erupts across the table and Steve jerks his head up to see Natasha choking on a lox and cream cheese bagel.

"How did you even get that in here?" Steve whispers, furtively looking for a lurking librarian.

"A spy doesn't reveal her secrets," Natasha replies hoarsely, swallowing around a lump of bagel. "He says he appreciates your help. He offers to repay the favor some time."

James purples, and he sinks low in his chair.

Steve is a tired, tired man.

* * *

 **Closing Note:**

"приве́т, Рад тебя видеть." = "Hello, it's good to see you"

"Трахни меня по стол, пожалуйста." = "Fuck me over the desk, please."

"я бы отса́сываю вы перед библиоте́карша." = "I would suck you off in front of the librarian."


	3. Tell Me, If I Lie Down Will You Stay Now

Summary: Flowers are stolen. Tony is a meddlesome man. Steve is dense, Bucky is not. Nat is meddlesome too, but with greater subtlety.

A/N: Clintasha if you squint. Pepper/Rhodey/Tony also if you squint. I'm mostly pleased with myself for getting this done relatively quickly. That said, do I have any concept of meeting deadlines? Nope.

* * *

It's been two months and November is now drawing to a close. James joins their study group intermittently; further Incidents in Russian are kept to a minimum. Steve sees him about the hall and in their room. James is polite, if reserved.

A rare afternoon of good weather draws Steve to the retaining wall by Stone Row, where he spreads one coat on the grass to sit. While the sky is clear, the ambient temperature is not high enough for Steve to shuck his second coat and sweater. He leans back against the rock wall, warm from the sun, and opens his humanities reading.

A shadow falls over his textbook, and then boots appear in periphery. James throws down his own coat and settles onto the grass beside Steve.

"Hey, good to see you," Steve says.

"You as well." James pulls his reading out of his bag and flops onto his stomach. Steve only just catches the title - The Magic Strings of Frankie Presto.

"Are you a fan of Mitch Albom?" He asks.

James looks up from his loose-limbed sprawl. "The reading, it is for my class. MUS 442 - Genre Studies. My professor, the week we start our 20th century vocals unit, says 'You read this, I give extra credit.' I never pass up extra credit; it's padding for when we do our microtonal unit." He puts his head in his hands. "It's culturally significant in some areas," Bucky says, voice muffled by his fingers, "But there are always the white boys who try to make electronic club music with it. Club music at baseline is a cursed genre."

Steve laughs. "You speak from experience?"

"The conservatory offers three levels of the course. I've taken all of them."

"What drives a man to subject himself to microtonal deep house more than once?"

James groans. "Business Entrepreneurship major, with a minor in classical performance."

Steve raises an eyebrow. "That's definitely hitting the opposite ends of the spectrum." He gives James an appraising look. "What do you want to do with it?"

With a heave, James swings himself into a sitting position. "It starts with my mother," he says, looking up at Steve. "You probably wonder, 'Why does Russian man have Irish name?' And it's because my mother is Irish. She is what you would call an expat, I think? Muckraker journalist from America, went to Russia for an investigative job, met my father - a lieutenant in the Russian military. She decided to stay, and here I am." He gestures expansively.

"So, what drives the son of an American journalist and a Russian soldier to move back to the states?"

"Music," James says. "I want to open my own studio, give lessons to children. I need business education to manage my studio, but really, I just want to make music."

"I think Russia more than holds its own in the area of performing arts. Why here?"

"My mother is from here," James replies. "I wanted to come see her old - she used this word - stomping grounds. It's not so hard - apply for student visa, book flight, et voila." His tone is amicable but his phrases are clipped enough Steve recognizes something further down. Steve nods, content to take that at face value for now.

James breaks the brief silence. "And you? What are you here for?"

"I'm a double major in forestry conservation and history of social justice; after I get my degree, I'm going to join the Fire Academy. I got my EMT license before starting college, as part of my prerequisites."

"Wow," James says archly, "forestry and social justice really hits opposite ends of the spectrum."

Steve laughs. "Ok, ok, you've got me there. I wanted to keep my options open; this way I'm employable in rural and urban areas, with the tools to advance into management and policy-making."

James flashes a brilliant smile. "Well aren't you just as wholesome as apple pie?"

Steve takes the handful of grass that he's been shredding and throws it at James. "Kiss my All-American ass," he says; there's no bite behind it, and James retaliates with a fistful of his own.

As Steve shakes blades of grass out of the neck of his shirt, there comes a thundering from behind. First a shadow and then a pair of legs and a flash of blond hair clear the pair where they've sprawled on the quad. Two envelopes fall between them. As the man disappears from sight, he shouts "Courtesy of the Campus Spider!"

James pinches one of them between thumb and forefinger and stares after the mystery leap-frogger. "Who?" He says to the wind.

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose. "Clint Barton. Acrobat and Natasha's ballet partner. Also the president of the campus archery club, of all things. This whole thing is Nat's doing, but the delivery is all Clint."

James tears open the envelope. Inside is a piece of thick stationary. It reads:

 _College of Performing Arts Fall Ballet Recital_

 _Location: Richard B. Fischer Center for the Performing Arts_

 _Date & Time: 7:00 pm, Saturday the 27th_

James flips the card over. _Natasha Romanoff_

"Huh," Steve says, peering into his own envelope. "I wonder how she got the embossed font. It's not one of the printing services offered at the student center."

* * *

The 27th arrives quickly, with overcast skies and threat of rain.

In the time before Natasha's recital, Steve hoofs it across campus to Ward Manor. The old house - the nineteenth century home of a wealthy blueblood - stands on top of the rise about the performing arts building and now houses students of the Upper College. It's regarded as the poshest place to live; the private bathrooms and balcony views of the Catskills - and outrageous boarding prices - speak to that fact. So Steve doesn't feel the least bit sorry when he wanders around the north end of the outbuildings and into the relative shelter of the rambling camellia hedge.

He looks around twice, slips his pocketknife into his hand, and cuts a dozen stems for Natasha. He's only just wiped the blade clean on his sleeve and folded it away when the sky opens up. Steve squints up at the clouds, which greet him with the tangible roar of rain. He blinks drops from his eyes and starts the walk down to the theater.

The drizzle becomes a downpour and Steve breaks into a sprint; all around there are other students running, fleeing the deluge with binders and bags over their heads. Though he makes the quarter mile journey in record time, he is thankful for his double-layer of coats, as the stragglers coming in behind him are soaked at the neckline.

The hum of the chamber group warming up seeps into the crowded foyer. Everywhere smells of petrichor and damp wool. A ballerina in her dress with her hair only partly done up dashes out between the doors and down a side hall, shouting in French to some invisible stagehand.

Steve shucks his outer coat and wraps the camellias inside. Then he makes his way to his seat. As the lights go down, a figure slips into the seat to Steve's right; in the gathering dark, he can just make out a flash of teeth and a gold-embossed stationary card.

The tidal wave of music rises and a spotlight blinks into brilliance. In the center is Natasha.

* * *

There's a modest gathering by the stage doors after the performance. Steve meets up with the rest of the gang - all, it seems, were delivered invitations by the Ballet Fairy (Clint).

Tony, Rhodey, and Pepper are all standing together - Tony is holding a ridiculously large bouquet of roses. "I made him get a smaller one," Pepper says when she catches Steve looking. "He set out originally to buy a fifty-stem centerpiece."

Bruce is there also, hands in the pockets of his corduroys, looking unassuming and quiet. He nods to Steve. Evidently the occasion was momentous enough to abandon the lab.

Sam finds him in the crowd almost immediately. "It's hard to lose you, Mister Tall, Pale, and Beefy." He eyes Steve's bundled coat shrewdly. There's a camellia petal poking out the neck. Sam eyebrow rises, but he just puts his finger to his lips. Steve gives up the ghost and unwraps them completely.

Bouquet in hand, he turns around to see James standing behind him, holding an identical bouquet of camellias. Steve's close enough he can see himself and his posies in James' eyes. They stare at each other in abject horror. The nearest flower shop is fifteen miles out, and as far as Steve can tell, James doesn't have any vehicle.

"You -" James cuts himself off and flushes red around the neck.

"It's not -" Steve's too informal to care that James has the same bouquet, but there's a niggling question in his head. Steve's bringing Nat flowers because they're old friends. Why does James have flowers? His pulse kicks up, and he hopes the sinking pit in his stomach shows on his face only as confusion. James looks uncomfortable enough as it is.

"Oh, boys," a voice ghosts in Steve's ear, and the little hairs at his nape rise. "Are those for me?" It's Natasha, resplendent in her dress, larger-than-life in her stage makeup. She relieves both men of their bundles in turn. "Really, you shouldn't have."

"Did you get those from the Ward Manor hedgerow?" Steve asks lowly.

The red at James' collar creeps up to his ears. A vein is thrumming at his temple.

"Me too," says Steve. He winks.

James clears his throat awkwardly and directs his full attention to the floor. He appears grateful Steve's responding with humor, and eases up a little. "This bulldog of a woman, she turns the corner just as I finish clipping. I have to dive - " he makes a sweeping motion with his hand " - into the bush to elude her. Monstrous tweed skirt."

Behind them, Clint, also in performance garb - which includes a truly astounding codpiece - stifles a snicker. "You met the Mrs. McTavish, the groundskeeper. You're lucky you escaped with your softer bits intact."

Natasha drags both men down by the neck and presses a kiss to their cheeks. "Bless you, boys."

* * *

"Where's my kiss?" Tony says with mock petulance. Rhodey plants a smacker on his forehead. Mollified, Tony surrenders the roses to Natasha with grace.

* * *

"What did you think?" Nat asks.

Steve answers honestly. "Each year, you surpass yourself."

"The other girl," Bucky adds, "The Frenchwoman? Wobbly arabesque. As always, Russians do it better." Nat gives him a fist bump.

"Who wants Pancho's?" cries Nat.

The general response is a clamor in the hall. "Old Man is buying!" she shouts.

Steve replies, "For the last time, I'm n-" but she's already ducking out into the drizzling night. He makes to follow, but stops when James doesn't fall in behind him. When Steve turns around, the other man is standing in the emptying hall. James doesn't look at him, doesn't look at anyone in particular.

"She meant you, too, you know?" Steve says. "Come with us, please." And he beckons. James takes the first step.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later they're tucked into their usual corner booth at Pancho's watching the rain sheet down the panes. Nat has wiped off the worst of her makeup, and pulled out the pins to let her hair fall.

She's bookended by Clint and Bruce, who's rubbing elbows with Pepper. Steve's on the far end, and Tony's right next to James with only Rhodey for supervision.

"So, you a nickname sort of person?" Tony asks James, making some impressive doe eyes.

"Not really," James replies. His head is bent over the menu, and every so often, he asks Steve for clarifications.

"Fair. The only distillation of James is Jim; you don't look like a Jim to me. But James is boring. You gotta have some kind of nickname to liven things up.

After a moment, Tony declares, "If you don't have a nickname, I'll make one for you. Babe, honey-pie, sweetums - "

All this earns him is an unimpressed stare from James.

"Fine, how does Manchurian Candidate sound?" Tony asks, his suave demeanor slipping.

James glares. "What?" says Tony.

"If you need one so badly, try 'Bucky'," Steve says snappishly.

"Bucky?" Tony says. "No, that doesn't work at -"

"My middle name is Buchanan."

"He knows your middle name?" And then to Steve: "How come you get to know his middle name?"

Some look of higher agreement passes between Pepper and Rhodey. At Pepper's nod, he flicks Tony hard, on his temple.

"What the hell was that for?" gripes Tony. Pepper smiles sweetly in response.

Bucky has remained commendably neutral through the whole thing, and is busy holding some kind of intellectual discussion with Bruce.

"So, my theory is that the provocation of the microbes, which results in the release of cortisol…" Bruce is saying. Bucky is listening intently, peeling the soggy label on his Corona. "… a similar stress-hormone effect in the human body - "

"In essence, an unbalance gut biome contributes to mood swings and anxiety?" Bucky summarizes.

"Yes!" says Bruce, "you have the exact idea."

* * *

Their food arrives, and conversation ceases as everyone digs in.

Clint manages to still be articulate with his mouth crammed full of chili verde. "So, my buddy ran the tightrope over the balcony from one end of Stevenson Library to the other. The center's open, man; you can see all the way down to the lobby. And I say to him, 'We're on the third level, and the floor is marble. You can't be serious.' He was serious. But hey, here I am!" Clint throws his arms wide.

"Impressive," Bucky says, nodding. "But I can top it. My friends, when I lived in Moscow, we used to go roof-running. Five stories high over traffic. Lots of rusty piping, and those old soviet shingles, so loose. But hey, here I am!" And he smiles as he bites into his machaca burrito.

Clint aspirates his chili verde, and Natasha gives him a strong _whack_ from behind. "I'm fine, I'm fine," he gasps, eyes watering. As soon as he can breath, he's leaning over to Natasha's ear and saying something that sounds a lot to Steve like "Can I marry him? I would let him throw me off a building." Steve's teasing is only just stayed by the fact that he himself can sympathize.

Bucky is already onto whatever thing next occupies his attention, unaware of or choosing to ignore Clint's gawping.

"Steve," Bucky says, "What was it you ordered?"

Steve can't swallow his bite fast enough to answer, so he covers his mouth with a hand and hopes Bucky can understand him around a craw full of burrito. "Lengua burrito," he says, "Same as usual."

"I have never been here before," confesses Bucky, "And I am not familiar with menu. What is lengua?"

The question was obviously addressed to Steve, but Tony picks it up before Steve can finish chewing.

"Tongue," he says. And then, a little louder and with a lot more mischief, "You know, he always orders it when we come here. He's a tongue-man, so to speak. Do you have a thing for tongue, Cap?"

Steve busies himself with squirting hot sauce onto his burrito; in his haste he adds too much, but it's too late to back down, so he takes an inadvisably large bite.

Tony scents blood in the water and turns his bedroom eyes on Bucky. "Do you like tongue, Buck?"

Bucky looks at Steve. "In Russia we have Mexican food, but not like this. I have never had tongue before."

Ok. The steady look in his eyes tells Steve that he's either playing up Tony's gag, or completely oblivious. Steve knows what's coming, and he's prepared to meet his demise with grace and aplomb.

"Can I taste your … tongue?"

Steve makes an unfortunate _urp_ -ing noise. He can't even speak around his mouthful, so he just ducks his head and hands the burrito to Bucky. Bucky takes an astronomically huge bite and chews thoughtfully. If anyone asks, Steve's tomato-red face is the result of too much of Pancho's Family Recipe Hot Sauce.

"Not bad," Bucky says. "Very tender. I like it." He licks his fingers. Then he pushes his plate over to Steve. "Taste mine."

If looks could kill, Tony would be a withered pile of ash right now.

* * *

Steve and Bucky walk Nat back to her dorm after dinner. Bruce had excused himself before Tony and Clint got tipsy, citing an early morning the next day. Pepper and Rhodey had escorted Tony away shortly after, saying their congratulations and goodbyes to Nat while awkwardly squeezing out of the booth. Clint vanished into thin air somewhere between the restaurant and the quad; invariably, he would turn up later.

Thus the three of them make their way in the dark over to Nat's hall in Resnick Commons. Bucky and Nat chatter amiably about the finer points of the recital. The rain is only a light mist now, and dew sparkles on the grass in the lamplight.

Something itches in the back of Steve's head. Eventually, he turns to Bucky. "You seem to know a lot about dancing. Did you ever…" he trails away.

"Dance?" Bucky snorts. "There was never the time." There's something in his voice that gives Steve pause.

"Then…"

Bucky waves a noncommittal hand. "I understand physics. Dancing is just movement, is just physics."

"Uhuh," Natasha says with a laugh. "What did you train in?"

There is a stillness now in Bucky's shoulders. "Sambo, mostly. Military father," he explains evenly.

Natasha smiles. "Kickboxing. And a little bit of everything else. You should come train with me."

Bucky gives her a gracious smile. By this time, they've reached her door. She scans herself in, and with a last smile backward, disappears into the hall foyer.

There is moisture in Bucky's hair and caught along lashes longer than strictly reasonable. He is golden in the porch light, and there are deep shadows in the hollows below his brow, and beneath his lips. Bucky looks up and catches Steve watching.

Steve clears his throat. "Ready to head back?"

Bucky nods. They walk in silence, but it's not so bad.

* * *

The next morning, there's a note taped to the thermos Nat hands him as they walk across the frost-covered quad.

It's tucked up inside the outer lid, and he doesn't notice it until he's halfway through PoliSci with Chilton.

It says:

 _Thome Dance Studio, Fisher P.A.C._

 _Thursday, December 1st_

 _4:00 pm_

 _Nat_

* * *

Steve shows up to Thome more than a little uncertain as to what's going on. Natasha's been cagey - no surprise there - about the whole thing; she responded to his first probing text with a simple "Bring workout wear," and left him on read for all the rest.

Well, here he is, in sweats and a tank underneath his winter gear.

He's hung around Natasha long enough to know his way around the building, and he finds her in the dance studio. She's doing stretches next to the bar - with Bucky?

The pair of them are dressed near-identical to Steve. Bucky has his hair up in a bun, and he's winding rags over his hands.

At this point, Steve notices the rolling cart of mats Nat's tucked into the corner of the room. Apparently, she was serious about the whole training thing. He didn't realize he'd been invited too.

"I didn't bring wraps with me," he says, shucking off his coat.

"You didn't tell him what we're doing?" Buck asks her.

"Thought I'd surprise him."

Bucky rummages in his bag. "You borrow mine, ok?" He tosses a ball of cotton wrappings to Steve.

"Thanks." Steve starts binding his hands.

Despite being a scrappy kid from Brooklyn, he can't hold a candle to Nat. His advantages in bulk and strength are voided by her speed and dexterity. He's sparred with her before, but it's a little embarrassing in front of an audience.

Out of three matches, he's only won one. After she uses him to wipe the floor for the second time, she sends him to go sit by the mirror.

"Watch Bucky and me." His roommate joins Nat on the mats.

Bucky is better suited to grappling with Natasha. He has Steve's mass, but the advantage of her training. Through the blur of limbs, it's almost like they're dancing. Their fluidity makes the whole thing look deceptively easy.

She pins him the first time, face down on the mat and with the threat of a dislocated shoulder.

The second time, she goes for a front tip elbow strike. He moves, faster than Steve can see, grabbing Natasha by the arm and using her own momentum to flip her forward and past him onto her back. On the way down, she hooks a foot behind Bucky's calf and yanks. Legs tangled they fall, but when Bucky hits the mat he rolls like a gator. Now it's Nat who's pinned.

He beats her the third time too. She gets tired and leaps onto Bucky's back - a legitimate move intended to take an opponent to the ground - but he wriggles like an eel as they go down. She taps out when he's got her in a straight leg lock.

When Nat gets up, she's breathing hard, but smiling. She slaps Bucky on the back. "This time, you take him," she says, pointing at Steve. Steve's heart just about stops for a second.

He picks himself up off the floor and joins Bucky in the ring. He spares a backward glance as Nat, who's plopped herself down off to the side and is chowing her way through some potato chips. She waggles her fingers at him and smirks. Judas.

Bucky appears the image of perfect composure; his hair is coming down, but his breathing is even. He circles Steve, and Steve thinks that if he had his eyes closed, he would not be able to detect Bucky's presence, save by the hairs the other man's very being raises on Steve's neck.

Steve is, to a certain degree, an immutable point. When Bucky strikes, he absorbs the first blow and brings his fists to bear. He doesn't pull his punches. Steve lacks grace, but Bucky will have to try harder to tumble him. But, like the oak falling to the wind while the grass bends, he barely has time to register the point at which Bucky slips inside his guard. One moment, his hands are free and clear, the next - Bucky is in his arms - he is in Bucky's arms - Steve is laying on his back looking up into blue eyes.

"You," Bucky says raspingly, "Are built like a brick shithouse," and he's so close Steve can see the moisture in the hollow of his throat.

Steve laughs breathlessly and taps out - there are too many legs together in one place, and he can't figure out which are his to break free.

Nat claps once from off to the side. "You do not move your feet enough," she says. And then, "The best way to learn how to fight is to first learn how to dance, don't you agree, James?"

"Nat - "

But Bucky is already holding out a hand, and Steve lets himself be drawn into the center of the room. There Bucky arranges his elbows and nudges his feet in line and holds his clumsy, cotton-bound palms in his own.

A lilting music sneaks into the room and curls in the corners, reverberating in the mirrors. Natasha has plugged her phone into the surround system.

Bucky takes the first step and Steve mimics its reverse almost without thought. They don't even dance; he just guides Steve around the room. He is the agent that drives Steve's motion and the inexorable pursuer of his flight.

"Now, a fight," Bucky says, voice a ghost in Steve's ear, "is like dancing because the two parties are mirrors of action and response. When I move, your first move is compensation, and your second, retaliation." He steps forward with his left, Steve steps back with his right. Bucky steps to the right and Steve follows him to his left. Bucky pulls them back into the music.

Over Bucky's shoulder, Steve can see himself in the mirror. He watches his limbs following Bucky's, the other man's back, the silence with which he fights and dances. As they revolve, out of the corner of his eye Steve can see that Bucky's eyes are closed and his face utterly still.

The music fades away. Bucky steps back. "Now let's try again."

* * *

A/N:

Camellias mean unpretending excellence or perfected loveliness, which fits rather well; in truth, the only reason I picked that flower is that they are known for flowering in winter and are common enough to find in a maintained hedgerow.

The health and complement of the microbes living in your digestive tract has a profound influence on overall mental health - new published research supported by the National Institute for Health. So, it's new but not so new that Banner would be pioneering it, but there are so many aspects of the issue to discuss that it's an opening field of research. Your gut microbes make neurotransmitters like dopamine, serotonin, and norepinephrine (happiness and relaxation), as well as antioxidants to reduce inflammation; unhealthy gut equals unhealthy everything else.

At Pancho's, the booth is like a semi-circle. It goes Clint at one end, then Nat, Bruce, Pepper, Rhodey, Tony, James, and Steve on the other end. Pancho's is based on a Mexican restaurant in my town - it has now been renamed to Casa Colima, but the locals still call it Pancho's. They do not serve lengua. They do serve menudo; it's growing on me in appeal. I get lengua at Super Torta.

Lengua is in fact a popular filling for burritos and tacos - it's my personal favorite. Tony's dialogue surrounding Steve's dinner is based on a real exchange I had with my younger brother, who when pressed can be fabulously rude. What do you expect from a high schooler?

Suspend all disbelief over the burrito-sharing. Bucky is a little shit, and pretends to be a little clueless to get a rise out of Steve. Plausible deniability; English isn't his first language.

I'd like to note that I don't mean to shit on Tony. I like him plenty as a character, tbh. However, he's kinda abrasive, and he doesn't get along with Bucky in canon. I'm really not dealing with any deep themes in this fic, so take it the humor at face value. Anyway, they're college students.

Side-note: Tony calls Steve "Cap" because Steve heads the intramural baseball team. This will come into play in later chapters. Just wanted to clarify. Steve is post-serum size, but for all intents and purposes, not a superhero.

I promise I have NOT forgotten Thor but I'm really struggling with how to include him considering his unconventional name. Maybe a Swedish exchange student on Steve's baseball team.

I'd like to note that I DO NOT dance, but I do fight. Most of my training is informal and closer to what Steve knows than the fancy shit Nat does, so cut me some slack.


	4. And of all These Things I'm Sure of

A/N:

This has been sitting in my drafts for forever. I finished it a week ago, and then life hit me like a mack truck and I'm only getting around to publishing it now. At this point, I think there will be one more chapter after this one.

* * *

Winter comes, and the snow falls thick and fast.

Steve packs for the trip home. The night before he leaves, Bucky's suitcase is still empty.

"Are you going home?" Steve asks from his place in bed. His laptop is open in his lap.

Bucky grimaces. "There's not much to go home to."

"Not going to see your family?"

"My father is a lieutenant in the Russian military." James grimaces. "In Russia, we have mandatory military service of one year. I did my time and now I am a free man."

Steve pauses for a moment. "Barnes. Your last name is Barnes. Your mother's name. "

"Yes." Bucky is more curt than usual.

"So, taking her name instead of your father's…" There is a question in Steve's voice.

"It was. Deliberate," Bucky says tightly, painfully.

Steve decides to let that particular matter lie. "You won't go visit your mother at least, then?"

Bucky waves a hand. "She is busy with the twins - Enna and Arina. They are just little things, six this March. I invite trouble." Bucky turns out his light and rolls to face the wall.

Steve lets it go at that.

Frost creeps up over the rim of the world that night, and the morning Steve leaves is cruel and cold. Bucky walks him out to the parking lot even though it's profanely early and he didn't grab his winterwear.

Steve pauses, the engine on his bike idling, looking for something to say. But his bags have been sent on ahead, and Mrs. Wilson is expecting him by noon, and there's nothing left to do except leave. So he flicks his kickstand up and kicks it in gear.

He gives a glance back over his shoulder, at Bucky with his shoulders hunched up in his leather jacket and his hands as deep in his pockets as he can cram him. For a second, Steve pictures turning right back around and saying "come meet Mrs. Wilson, come get tacos from the place on Verona and Van Brunt, come home with me." But he doesn't turn around.

* * *

Baseball conditioning in February is a brutal slog through the rain, and Steve comes home waterlogged and slick with mud.

By mid-March, the rain has barely let up, but the occasional break in the deluge brings crowds out to watch them practice. The first day it's a scattering of people, then a handful the next, and by the end of the week, there are droves. People perch on the rickety metal stands with their textbooks and thermoses of coffee. Some of them come in a gaggle, giggling and pointing at what Steve will charitably assume are _not_ his players' asses. He doesn't understand how the stands can be comfortable for any length of time. There's ingenuity afoot separating the recreational watchers from the truly dedicated - one party of five brings cushions and a communal flannel blanket.

Finals week is approaching, so Steve and Natasha stage another study session on the Hoffman third floor. About fifteen minutes in, Bucky ducks behind the potted ficus and flops into the chair next to Steve. He offers a sheepish smile. "I have economics homework, and Nat said you'd be here."

"Nat's hiring me out as a tutor, now?"

"I meant 'you' in the plural sense, punk."

Whatever Natasha's got up her sleeve must be wriggly, because it takes all of five minutes for her to let the cat out of the bag. Bucky's got his head turned away as he digs in his bag for something and misses it, but Steve's nearly suplexed by the gimlet eye Natasha pins him with. All his blood drains out to his feet.

"So," she says in that tone she uses when she's got something cooking, "how are you feeling about the coming season?"

"Nat - "

"It rains here," Bucky says, voice muffled in his bag, "but it's better than the snow in Russia."

"Oh, no," Natasha says sweetly, "I meant that Steve's the baseball captain, and their season starts in a week."

Bucky makes a triumphant noise and throws the notebook he'd been looking for onto the table. "I didn't know you played. And look at you, captain!" He beams.

Steve can see Nat grinning over Bucky's shoulder. He shakes his head in exasperation. "It's just the intramural team; it's not a big deal."

"Oh, that's not what your fans seem to think," Natasha practically purrs. "They've been showing up in droves to watch you boys practice - I'd blame it on those tight knee breaches."

Bucky gives him an intense look. "I know how he is similar to apple pie."

Natasha looks up from her textbook, which she had been pretending to read. "Both sickeningly American?" She drops her eyes again.

Steve blushes and covers his face with his hands, but Bucky isn't laughing. Instead, he says in Russian "дво́е ве́щи которые я хочу́в во рту."

Natasha lets out a throaty cackle and kicks her feet. Steve doesn't want to know.

* * *

The first game is that following Friday. It's overcast and Steve's under armour is sticking to his back in a cold sweat.

It's the bottom of the third inning and his team is batting. Steve's early in the lineup. Sam is on second, so he doesn't have to run if Steve flubs it and only manages one base. Thor is next and has the swing to bring all of them home.

He centers himself, brings his bat up, and looks across to the pitcher. Steve tunes out everything else, sees the twist in the pitcher's hips, his arm snap forward. Steve takes a step. Swings. Feels that sharp crack travel up into his shoulder, and takes off running.

When he comes back to himself, he's on second and Sam's home. He does a little dance from next to the dugout and then salutes. Steve salutes back.

Steve looks over to the home stand - there's plenty of howling going on, but Natasha on the third row takes the cake. Steve looks up one row and to the right, and there's Bucky. He didn't know he was coming to watch; he certainly hadn't said he was. Steve gives him a little wave. Bucky turns red. Natasha follows the line of Steve's arm, catches Bucky's reaction, and gives him a playful slap on the knee. Steve can see her mouth move. Whatever she says drives Bucky to bury his face in his coat collar.

They win the game, which requires a celebration at Pancho's. Tony offers to pay, but "Only because to enforce our longstanding 'Old Man Buys' rule would be churlish in the face of his recent victory."

"All right, Tony," Steve laughs. "But we're going to win the next game too, and we'll hold you to buying then, too."

* * *

Bucky's at the next game too.

Steve almost doesn't see him - he's not sitting with Natasha this time. Instead, he's wearing a blazer and button-down - Steve can swallow that, but where did he even find a tie? He's stashed himself behind a group of preppy first-years. To a less discerning eye, he would fit right in. Steve lets it go for a while, and then gives him a little wave at the top of the fifth.

The girls in front think he's waving at them, and they squeal. Bucky slides down further in his seat.

They win again.

* * *

The third game, there's driving wind.

Steve is on the look-out for his roommate this time, but it's not like it matters much. He spots him within fifteen minutes of stepping out onto the field.

Bucky has himself wrapped up in rain pants and the poofiest orange down coat Steve has ever seen. He can see poking out the collar more than one flannel shirt. On top of this he has wrapped himself in a wool scarf, and his hands are in mittens. He's wearing one of those ridiculous hats with the ear flaps and dangly tassels. The whole thing gives him the vague impression of a squishy, grandmotherly pumpkin.

Steve is absolutely certain he has never seen a single item of that ensemble in Bucky's wardrobe. And even if he did happen to have the singularly bad taste required to make a purchase like that, the weather doesn't demand it. There's not even snow. Most of the New Yorkers aren't even wearing hats, and Bucky's Russian, for the love of god.

He concludes that someone must be supplying outfits for Bucky. And there was only one person Bucky would ask for what appeared to be a disguise who would send him away with these rags in hand. Natasha.

Steve shook his head. He gave Bucky another little wave, and Bucky shrank until his nose disappeared into his scarf.

They won the game.

* * *

They're out on the field and it's the bottom of the ninth. Steve is up to bat. They're down by two points and the bases are packed - Thor would be the ideal candidate to bat, but he's tied up on second. At least Sam is on third, and he's so fast that no matter what happens, he'll make it home. Steve has to make this one count.

He sees the ball whip towards him and he steps into his swing. Steve doesn't stop to watch where the ball goes; he takes off running, whipping past the guy on first base. Out of the corner of his left eye, he can see Sam make it home.

Only now, as he's coming up on second does Steve chance a look to the outfield. The other team is scrambling for the ball. Steve says fuck it and keeps going. Thor had skidded into third, but with one look at Steve barreling towards him, the Swede takes off again.

Steve's a handful of feet from third when he feels the air part along his left ear as the ball whips past. He resigns himself to being the one that loses the game for his team. But the third baseman isn't looking, catches sight of the ball a second to late. He sticks out his mitt, fumbles the ball, and goes down in an attempt to hold onto it. The ball bounces away.

The safe thing would be to stay on third. Steve is cutting it closer than a knife can split a hair. Thor's out ahead and will make it home safely. Someone else can score that last point. But he's seized by something wild and irresponsible and he skids around third, kicking up dust.

His lungs are painfully tight in his chest, his legs burning. But Steve doesn't stop. He flies out across the track. Foot by foot, he's gaining on Thor.

In front of him, Steve can see the catcher slide into his stance; he knows without seeing that the ball is flying behind him. The Swede isn't the fastest, but they'll both make it home, if Steve has anything to say about it. With the last few yards remaining, he puts on one final burst of speed - his focus is so complete he stops breathing - and tackles Thor forward onto the plate.

Steve hears rather than feels his impact onto the ground, and then a second later the smack of the ball into the mitt. He rolls over onto his back and sucks in a huge lungful of air, looking up at the sky as the clouds part and golden light streams down.

Thor pulls him to his feet and into a bear-hug - Steve disappears completely into his arms, which is no small feat. The Swede musses his hair and then lets him go.

The tumultuous sea of the roaring crowd falls away as Steve pivots, searching the stands. And there, towards the front, illuminated in a beam of light, is Bucky. He's wearing his usual bulky jean jacket and a red long sleeve. He's on his feet, and he's got this blue ball cap in his hand that he's waving in the air. A grin splits his face. There's no disguise, not today, and Bucky doesn't shrink away when Steve catches his eye.

* * *

Bucky catches him as he's coming out of the locker room.

"You know, Stark is going to be upset about drinks being on him for the fourth Saturday in a row."

Steve laughs. "We never have such a good run. Except when you're in the stands, I guess." He shoots Bucky a look out of the corner of his eye. "You must be some sort of guardian angel."

* * *

A/N:

I did some digging, and the marvel wiki says Cap lived in Red Hook for a while. So I've decided he lives in an apartment on Verona.

Some Translation:

Bucky: "I know how he is similar to apple pie."

Natasha: "Both sickeningly American?"

Bucky (looking at Steve): "Two things I want in my mouth."

I want to apologize - I abhor google translate so I wrote the Russian out myself using a dictionary and trying to get the tenses and genders to match up. If It's not right, please tell me how I can fix it!

You can't tell me Steve wouldn't play baseball. The man's birthday is independence day, for god's sake. He's more american than apple pie. I had to do mad baseball research to write this chapter. So not my forte. Correct my mistakes, please!

SAM: Shortstop - most physically demanding, good defense, may have poorer batting averages (less common now)

STEVE: Center fielder - captain of outfield, most running and best arm, most athletic

THOR: First base - usually left handed, best reflexes, usually power hitters (third base is similar but righthanded, not a power hitter)

The commandos are on the team too, but I don't know them well enough to assign them positions. Just assume they're there. They may come up later.


End file.
